As expected of the Sichuan Tang Clan—an assassin family born of shadows and steel. You couldn’t afford to drop your guard around her, not for a heartbeat.
While I straightened my rumpled robes, shaking off the ache in my ribs, Tang Ayeon glided toward the man with the deceptive ease of a breeze through bamboo. Her steps were featherlight, silent as a whisper on silk—no creak from the floorboards, no rustle from her sleeves. She was a specter in the dim lamplight, every motion honed to lethal grace.
"Hey? Can you hear ?" Her voice was honey over a blade, sweet and unyielding.
"Ughhh...! Sob...!"
"If you don’t answer, I’ll make your other hand match the first." She crouched beside him, her tone casual, as if discussing the weather.
"I-I hear you! I hear you!" The brute who’d nearly pumled into the floorboards now quivered like a leaf in a gale, dwarfed by a woman half his size. This was the essence of true martial arts—a realm forever barred to , no matter how desperately I clawed at its edges.
"It might sting a little, so bear with it, okay?" She flashed a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
"W-Wait, what are you—"
Shunk!
"Arghhh!!!"
In one fluid yank, she wrenched the dagger free, the blade erging slick and gleaming. A fresh gush of blood followed, painting the floor in crimson arcs. I winced, my stomach twisting—Oof... That wasn’t a sight for the faint of heart, and mine was already frayed.
"Here, take this cloth. It’s clean, so use it without worry." She pressed a folded square of linen into his trembling fingers, her touch almost maternal.
"Sob... Sob..."
"So, how’d you get hurt today?" She tilted her head, feigning idle curiosity.
"...While eating... I slipped up..."
"Good boy~" She patted his shoulder lightly, as if rewarding a skittish pup.
Was she always like this? I’d only glimpsed her brighter side before—the warm smiles, the easy laughter. But with enemies? She was a storm wrapped in silk, rciless and precise.
"Today, you ca to this fortune-telling shop—yes or no?"
"No..."
"Great. You can go now."
"Ughhh..."
Face twisted in terror, he bound his mangled hand with frantic knots and scrambled for the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.
"You know what happens if you talk about this sowhere, right?" Her voice drifted after him, soft as a lullaby, sharp as a needle.
"H-Hiik!"
He bobbed his head like a puppet on strings and vanished into the night, the door slamming shut in his wake.
"I chased him off. Happy now?" Tang Ayeon straightened, dusting her hands with a satisfied flick.
"...Thanks, Miss Tang Ayeon." I dipped my head, gratitude mingling with the lingering adrenaline.
"No big deal. We’ve known each other for more than a day or two." She shrugged, that playful glint returning to her eyes.
I rummaged through a cluttered shelf for a rag, anything to scrub the blood from the floor before it soaked into the wood. The tallic tang hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of how quickly civility could shatter.
"By the way, you’re really weak, huh? Couldn’t even handle a guy like that." Her words carried a teasing lilt, but there was concern threaded beneath it.
"Didn’t I tell you? I can’t learn martial arts..." My broken dantian pulsed dully at the thought—a ruined core, mocking with its emptiness.
"Still, I thought you’d have so way to protect yourself." She crossed her arms, leaning against the counter with a sigh.
’A way to protect myself...’
Her words pulled my gaze to the middle distance, lost in the haze of what-ifs. ...Too expensive. The elixirs, the rituals, the forbidden arts that might nd what fate had shattered—they were lifetis away, buried under mountains of silver I didn’t have. I waved a hand through the flickering veil of my astral sight, a translucent shimr that danced like heat haze, then knelt to attack the stain with the rag.
"Want to teach you sothing?" she offered suddenly, her voice cutting through my reverie.
"...I can’t learn martial arts, though?"
"No, not that. I can’t just hand out clan secrets to outsiders anyway." A wry smile tugged at her lips. "But I could show you joint-locking techniques."
Joint-locking—subtle arts of restraint, twisting limbs and nerves with bare hands. Not true martial prowess, but a cunning auxiliary skill, the kind that turned a brawl into a swift submission.
"You might not topple a real martial artist," she continued, "but if you’re set on this fortune-telling life, you should at least handle street thugs like that one. Fa’s a double-edged sword; the brighter you shine, the more fools will co swinging. And I can’t shadow you from dawn to dusk, you know."
...You can’t guard all day?
The words nearly slipped out, but I caught them with a grin. "Huh? Just kidding."
She was right, of course. Joint-locking wouldn’t forge into a warrior, but it could buy ti—pin a drunkard’s arm, slip free from a grab. For a man whose only weapons were glimpses of the stars, it was a fair trade. And with my dantian sealed shut, it was one of the few paths open to .
"I’ll learn it," I said, resolve settling like dust after a storm.
"..."
"Miss Tang?"
"Ah!" Her cheeks blood scarlet, as if I’d caught her in a daydream. She cleared her throat with an exaggerated cough. "Ahem. Then after you close shop—at the Hour of the Dog—I’ll swing by."
"Oh, never mind. I won’t learn it."
"Why not?!" Her eyes widened in mock outrage.
"That’s when I hit the tavern." I couldn’t help the chuckle that followed.
After a flurry of half-protests and laughter—what passed for negotiation between us—we compromised on the afternoon instead, when the sun still clung to the rooftops.
At first, she was just soone I found mildly intriguing—a fleeting curiosity in the endless scroll of fates I glimpsed. I’d been startled, truth be told, when that notorious wastrel from the Namgung Clan dispatched a letter laced with near-desperate pleas. Namgung Jin, the sa spoiled peacock I’d last seen sulking in the training halls, his pride in tatters after one too many losses. Imagining him humbling himself to anyone felt like peering at a warped reflection.
But the request itself? Even more baffling. All he wanted was a favor: help a lone soul establish a smooth foothold for their shop in Shaanxi. A fortune-telling shop, of all things—hardly the stuff of clan intrigues or blood feuds.
"The only person I could think of with ties to Shaanxi who isn’t a total scoundrel was you, miss."
Ties? A generous word for the threadbare acquaintance we’d forged years back. Still, it wasn’t much to ask—not when guilt still prickled at for that sparring mishap, the one where my palm had caught his jaw just a hair too hard. His reputation, already teetering, had plumted after, whispers of "weakling" chasing him like hounds.
Still, I should see what kind of person this guy really is.
What if old grudges simred beneath the ink, a veiled strike aid my way through this proxy? Caution had kept alive in the Tang Clan longer than luck alone ever could.
The man who awaited in that dusty Shaanxi teahouse was, on the surface, a walking riddle wrapped in suspicion. A cloak, stiff with old bloodstains, swathed him from crown to toe, devouring any hint of form or feature. Shadows clung to him like loyal shades; no angle of light pierced the cowl to reveal so much as a jawline or an eye. His voice erged muffled and strange, stripped of natural timbre—neither fully masculine nor feminine, a deliberate veil that set my instincts humming.
The only clue lay in his gait: a subtle, grounded stride that whispered man, though if he’d sworn otherwise, I’d have nodded along without a flicker of doubt.
"Hello. Can I call you Miss Tang Ayeon?" The words slithered out, polite but edged with caution.
"Just to be sure, what’s your gender...?" I ventured, keeping my tone light, a hand resting idly near the hidden needles at my wrist.
"Oh, I’m male." No defensiveness, no evasion—just blunt fact, as if discussing the phase of the moon.
He wasn’t hiding it, at least. But trust? That was a bridge too far for a figure this elusive. My standing in the clan didn’t allow for blind leaps—not without a na, an age, a face to pin to the shadows. Expecting aid on the strength of a single letter and this ghostly guise? It reeked of setup, or desperation too polished to be genuine.
"Alright. I understand what you want." I leaned back, folding my hands to mask the tension coiling in my limbs. For the mont, his tale aligned with Namgung Jin’s missive—no glaring cracks. Either he spoke plain truth, or they’d rehearsed this charade to perfection. A true deceiver would weave no looser web.
"By the way, do you know what kind of relationship I have with Namgung Jin?" I pressed, letting a conspiratorial smile curve my lips.
"...I only got the letter, so I don’t really know."
"He confessed to once, and I rejected him—suggested we stay friends instead. So, yeah, we’re friends. Though he dropped out right after that." The lie spilled effortlessly, a honeyed barb to test the waters.
How would he react? A genuine ally might stumble, caught off-guard. A foe? Panic would crack his mask, or denial would sharpen it.
’Let’s see how he responds.’
Panic? Denial?
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